‘No, get back, you fool!’
The toad creature struck the man in the waist just as he stabbed downwards wildly. Rather than severing the flesh as the Ninth Rain had done, the man’s sword became stuck, just as though he’d thrust it into a barrel of tar. He tugged at it once, and then, thinking the better of it, turned to run, but the toad parasite had hold of his tunic with its wide mouth and pulled him back easily enough. Long tapering fronds squeezed out the corners of its lips and slapped wetly around the man’s neck. Tor, struggling to his feet, grabbed hold of the man’s shoulder, hoping to yank him from the thing’s grasp, but the fronds squeezed and the man’s head burst like an overly ripe fruit. The strange appendages immediately slid into the wet mess where his neck had been, as though searching for something. Tor let go of the body, surrendering the useless flesh.
‘That’s quite enough.’
His words were quiet, but both the parasite spirits turned to regard him, lights spinning in their flesh like the stars after one too many glasses of wine. Tor bellowed and rushed at the toad-shaped creature, driving the Ninth Rain ahead of him with both hands on the pommel. His arm was still bright with pain but he kept it steady, and he had the satisfaction of watching the creature suddenly turn and scamper away. Tor struck, the long straight blade piercing the fleshy back deeply and then he flicked it up, tearing through the wobbly resistance. The torn area turned a cloudy grey, and the creature squealed and bellowed and fell onto its side. As it died, its form twisted and melted and re-formed, as if trying to find a shape where it was unhurt.
Tor stepped away, turning towards the tall parasite spirit – a moment too late. It was already bringing one of its long arms down, and again he was struck and this time thrown into a nearby fence. The touch of its glassy flesh trailed down his chest, and for a few horrible moments his breath was frozen where it was, a hard lozenge in his throat. Tor tried to sit up, his boots digging furrows in the mud, but a tide of weakness moved through him, holding him in place. Panic clutched at his throat – his sword was no longer in his hand – and with effort he forced himself to calm down. With his right hand, thankfully still responding to his commands, he slipped a glass vial from within his pocket. One-handed, he uncorked it and pressed it to his lips. Blood, salty and not as fresh as he’d like, flooded over his tongue and filled his mouth. He thought, briefly, of Sareena, and the sweet afternoon they’d spent together. It was pleasant to imagine that her blood tasted like her skin, of apricots and smoke, but it did not. It tasted of blood.
‘Get up, lad!’
Vintage was sprinting towards him, waving the crossbow in a worrying manner. Tor stood up, feeling strength coming back to his arm, sensation coming back to his chest. He could breathe. He felt powerful. Behind Vintage, the tall parasite spirit was standing over the body of its kin, one arm blackened where Tor had severed some of its fronds, but when it saw Tor coming, something in his stance seemed to spook it and it began to take odd, lolloping strides backwards.
‘Tor, remember, we may be able to follow it back to the Behemoth.’
Tor stalked past Vintage without looking at her. The creature had touched him, had hurt him. It had insulted him – had insulted Ebora itself. This would not stand.
But the creature was already leaving. Abruptly, it began to fade from view, vanishing like a deep shadow at sunrise. He had seen them do this before; seeping away into nothing, leaving their destruction behind. In a few moments it was gone completely, and the corpse of its brethren was mouldering where it lay, a pile of congealing jelly. The weird alien funk of it filled the air.
Tor sheathed his sword, watching the shadowed place where the tall parasite had vanished. Dimly, he was aware of shouting, of many complaints from Vintage and cries from the villagers, but the blood-fire was leaving him now and he felt oddly empty.
Hollow again.
5
In the dream, Noon was in the furnace room. Novice Lusk knelt in front of her, his broad back shining with sweat while the column of her flame danced above them. She felt the euphoria of the fire and treasured it, trying to hold it inside her forever; trying to remember what skin felt like under her touch, forever. And then the great chimney above them was torn to one side and the circular room was filled with daylight. As her flames spluttered and died, Noon looked up to see a nightmare hanging in the sky above them: it was the corpse moon come to life. This close, it was a fat segmented worm, the thicker bands of its centre studded with pulsing pustules, while the head was a writhing collection of finger-like growths. There were things pushing through that barrier, creatures new to the sky of Sarn being born into an unknown atmosphere, and she knew suddenly that if she looked on them, she would die.
Turning away, she was caught up in Lusk’s arms. He pulled her close and peered at her, as if he didn’t know what she was.
‘Let go of me! We have to get out of here.’
He smiled, a weird twisting of his lips as though he had seen other people do it before and was trying it for the first time.
‘You know, Fell-Noon, why you are here, don’t you?’
She put her hands up and pushed at him, but when her fingers brushed his chin, his flesh fell back as though it were made of uncooked dough. She cried out in disgust as his pale skin came away in sticky strands, and then his entire face caved in, revealing an empty, hollow darkness. There was nothing inside him – no bones, no blood – yet somehow he was still speaking to her.
‘You’ll die in here with all the others.’
She yanked herself away and she was back inside the Winnowry itself, moving without moving, in the way of dreams. Everyone was outside of their cells, crowding onto the narrow walkways, and the walls were shaking, so that the air was filled with dust. Above them, the great water tanks swung from side to side, sloshing water onto the people below – and in the part of her that knew on some level that this was a dream, she wondered at the detail of that. The women were screaming and pushing against each other, trying to flee but not knowing where to go.
‘Outside!’ Noon cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. ‘We have to get outside! If we rush them all at once they can’t stop us!’
Marian grabbed at her sleeve, and for a sickening moment Noon thought her face would collapse the way that Lusk’s had, but instead the girl bit her lip, shaking her head.
‘But they are outside, Noon! They’re crawling all over the Winnowry.’ She held up her arms – bare skin covered in brown freckles – and Noon saw fat creatures like black beetles scuttling down from her shoulders, climbing over her elbows with legs like tiny knives. As she watched, Marian screamed and the beetles rushed to her face, eager to run down her throat.